


Love

by det395



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Cheating, Dubious Consent, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Mild Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22782043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/det395/pseuds/det395
Summary: If it was love that killed Boo, then what now?
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	Love

**Author's Note:**

> (trying something new, heed the warnings!)

She hears the  _ zip,  _ right next to her ear. She pushes her hair away and flips over, but it doesn’t stop the sensory images forcing into her brain. The feeling when the zipper caught for a moment and she had to pinch hard against the metal ridges to yank it down, leaving tiny marks in her fingers.

She turns back over again. Maybe if she washes her sheets she’ll be able to relax. It’s been months since she has. It’s probably surrounding her with the stink of herself that she can’t even smell.

_ Zip.  _ It went down smoothly. The buttonhole was nearly ripped apart, hanging on by a few threads. Why had she stared at that detail for so long?

-

Her fingers move sporadically, off-beat, too gently then far too hard because it can’t be that hard to crush a guinea pig's ribs, right? This small thing? But how the fuck does she get its lungs breathing again, and how does CPR even work anyway?

It’s so stiff in her hands, like it’s made out of wood. Her own lungs are beginning to ache, a sob is close to coming out but she strains and holds it in telling herself she’s not going to breathe until this fucking guinea pig does, and if it’s dead, then who the fuck knows what will happen. Is that even possible, to hold her breath until—

The guinea pig just rolls over in her hand, she almost drops it. She quickly shoves it back in the cage. It walks, makes that small noise it always does. 

It takes a couple of minutes for her lungs to breathe normally. The panic is gone, at least. But as always, in its place, comes a numbness she can barely stand. In the reflection of the stainless steel till she wipes at her mascara, then turns the café sign to open.

-

She sits on the ground in the bike lane.

What did Boo see in that moment? Probably not those drunk homeless people across the street. She doesn’t realize they’re yelling at her until one of them begins strutting closer. 

She suddenly realizes she’s not scared of homeless men, they really only make her feel awkward. 

_ After what you did to Boo? _

Prove me wrong, she thinks. If there are no bikes and cars that are going to hit her, then just do it.

He stands in the middle of the road, a dark figure just outside of the haloed street lights, half burnt-out and dim anyway. He yells his heart out, _"G_ _ et out ‘er here ya’ fuckin’ slut! Didn’t anybody teach na’… stare! Whore! Fuckin’.... Ah." _

He seems to lose energy. He throws an arm in the air and stumbles off. For a brief second, he looks familiar.

She’ll have to come back at rush hour.

-

Beneath the jeans were green pants. How surprising.

This guy has black pants. How boring. And, as it turns out, how suitable. She washed her sheets for this? 

The rocking motion does something for her, at least. He’s rhythmic. With each thrust she drags across the bedsheet, up and down, in time with his weight pressing on her chest. It might be enough to stop her breathing, but as he pulls back he lifts slightly and she takes a breath in. Presses down on her and she lets it out. She doesn’t have to control anything now. Not even her own breathing. By the anticlimactic end, she’s actually kind of sad it's over.

Sometimes it’s the pure thought of having sex with someone for hours that gets her off. Just an agonizing amount of time writhing together, sweating, being fucked. Fully devouring a person until you’re dizzy and completely unaware of the world, just blissfully in peace again.

Instead of getting a little piece and forever craving what you can’t have. Shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have—

-

He had on faded jeans and a salmon-coloured t-shirt. His dick was a fair size. The zipper getting stuck might have been a little hint of God forcing through her atheist shield, saying  _ don’t _ . The panic didn’t come until after, unfortunately. Maybe if it came in the middle, maybe if they stopped halfway through, there would be slightly less guilt.

She had on blue jeans and a pink blouse. Her ripped jeans zipped down smoothly and she had green pants on. Surprising. Boo was always surprising.

There was something about that nearly ripped buttonhole of Boo’s jeans. When else would she see such a detail? They could lay in bed and lean into each other, but being down  _ here _ was uncalled for. The jeans quickly came down, and so did the green pants which, lo and behold, also had a hole in them. 

Boo probably kept them out of attachment. She was like that. 

The holes in the fabric were some of the only memories that left that night. Not the taste, not the smell, not the feeling on her tongue. Maybe there was some memory of that thin line of hair and the lint-filled belly button because it was right before the whisky kicked in and fuzzed up her sex-brain.

There was giggly kissing, then there was a shot, then she was down at Boo’s crotch, that’s how it happened. Something like that. The urge to prove, show, explain something she couldn’t quite articulate sober.

She had raised her head, a sinking feeling filling up her chest, and realized Boo was sprawled across the floor unconscious.

-

She takes a long walk to work these days. It’s for exercise. It’s not because she can’t stand to look at the shoe store she once saw Boo’s ex-boyfriend. 

What does he feel every day? Is he guilty? Is she the only one with blood on her hands? She was the best friend, after all. Men cheat, it’s not surprising. Her, on the other hand. She’s a fucking pervert. A fucking horrible, perverse creature who ruins every—

-

The first day was not knowing if Boo could remember anything. Her pants were pulled back over her hips, and her head brought to her pillow. Just another drunken night.

The second day was a red flag, the big blue eyes and the bitten lip that watched her across the cafe, never coming too close. 

The third day the tears came, and Boo held her hand, and things felt an inch closer to okay.

On the fourth day, Boo’s boyfriend said it was okay they slept together. They were two women, after all. And Boo wasn’t gay. Boo laughed at that.

-

It was much harder to get women to come home with you. Maybe it was just hard to be the dominant one in the pursuit of sex, but that seems like a gender role assumption that this woman wouldn’t approve of. Anyway, she comes eventually. Blonde hair, jean jacket and all, pressed close in a taxi.

At a glance in the reflection of the car window, she can see the lipstick smeared around her mouth, looking like a weird disease. 

“You been with a woman before?” She asks out of nowhere. This woman is coarse, it’s kind of hot.

She scoffs, trying her best at cool disbelief. “Of course.”

The woman seems to sense her defensiveness. “Just asking.”

It really is good that this woman takes control in the end. She moves too fast to think, moans shamelessly, finds a vibrator under the pillow instantly and it’s fucking perfect. For as long as it lasts. She leaves quickly.

-

Today she finds a bottle of vodka under the sink. She laughs out loud to herself. It was  _ that  _ night, of course, when Boo promised she hadn’t taken the last shot but couldn’t keep a straight face. For hours they wrestled, bantered, searched for the missing bottle, tears leaking out of eyes with how silly they were, messy drunkenness and enjoying an endless night when all else was quiet but them.

She stands, ready to find her phone to call. It would have been such a great call, to say  _ I found it you fucking…  _

But instead, a sob bubbles up from her chest.

Now she has the image of Boo squatting on the floor, eyes tearing up while she swallows back the burning liquid, giggling quietly and listening at the door like its a game. How long did Boo wait for her to find this?

“You fucking bitch!” She screams at the floor. “You’re so  _ stupid,  _ how could you be so good and nice and still so fucking stupid, why would you ever even try such a…” her voice dissolves quickly. There’s no power in her for this right now. Her neighbours are going to call the cops on her if she continues.

“I don’t hate you,” she mumbles, shaking her head. She looks to the side. “I don’t blame you, I promise. Just, how could you do that to me?”

“Are we even now? You broke my heart right back, you know that?” She squeezes her eyes shut.

-

Boo isn’t even at this grave. It’s just a reminder. Every grave here has connected multiple people to grief at some point, like an exponential web of sadness.

How many people were murdered here? Not murder-murdered but maybe their doctor didn’t believe them about their dwindling health. Maybe the government cut off their social assistance. Maybe their parents kicked them out, leaving them for years of life-expectancy shortening struggles. Maybe that friend wasn’t around to stop them from overdosing. Maybe no one was there to tell them to watch their step. Maybe their family was waiting for them to die, so they said no to treatment, and just waited. How many were drained of life after being taken advantage of?

You’re barely a woman if you haven’t been taken advantage of all your life. Another thing to question the value of your feminism, because if you haven’t been, not like  _ that  _ anyway, then are you the evil one instead?

-

It seems pretty obvious now that sleeping with Boo’s boyfriend was undeniable malice, an evil that no human should have. Because the jealousy was so bad, the possession never-ending, that making Boo hurt would be the obvious choice. That’s what men do, don’t they?

She wonders why she can’t figure out her own motive. Why she keeps analyzing it from the outside. Those feelings don’t seem to exist in her actual memories, she cannot recall a motive, as much as she tries. 

It’s almost like there was no motive. Like she ruined Boo’s life for no reason. Is that better?

-

The really bad moments always pass eventually. From despair so real you think you’d destroy the world if you could, to moving through life with a bit of ignorant lightness. Now she can joke around and make friends with customers and smile and not sleep with anyone for a few days. 

The guilt comes later. For now, the lack of pain is too good to want to find it again.

That little lady who always talked to Boo suddenly pops into the cafe. Mary. Mary has a black tea and a scone and looks around as if searching. If she asks where Boo is, that just might be the end of the good mood streak.

Instead, Mary waves her over with a sad smile.

“Boo would be so happy. Look at this place, it has her spirit.”

“Oh,” she laughs, waving it away.

“It does,” Mary says, putting a wrinkled hand on top of hers. Her eyes say it all.

Eventually, the bad will come again. Maybe it doesn’t need to be  so bad for the rest of her life.

-

Because she loved a woman, how exactly she loved Boo might be unknowable. The love wasn’t the thing that killed Boo. Maybe that came from a dark place or maybe it just happened, but it wasn’t the love. The love was good, and strong and real. 

It just happened. And you loved her. And now, she'll follow you forever.


End file.
